Recognition
by kes2
Summary: All Neville wants is for his parents to know him.


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Recognition.

Disclaimer: All HPU stuff belongs to the oh-so-holy and oh-so-rich JKR, and I own the depressed, teenage hormonal state of Neville, but not Neville himself. Although I wouldn't mind owning him, as he _is_ quite sweet.

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A/N: This is set just before 7th year. Nev's at St Mungo's. Depressing, natch, as it's to do with his parents etc. This was written in a very depressing five minutes, so any problems with it, just let me know. Thanx!

ALSO: I am a girl. I am (roughly) the same age as Nev in this, but I am writing a boy's perspective from a girl's mind (if you can call it that...) so if it makes no sense, thats why...

~*~

I stared at her impassive cold face, for what felt like the millionth time. I stared for the hope of at least a glimmer of something, anything. All I want is recognition. Even if it is mistaken, I want them to recognise their son, if only for a moment.

I long to hear them speak coherently, to see me. To see their son, all grown up. I'm soon to enter my last year at Hogwarts, yet they still remember me as a one year chubby little boy. Assuming they remember. I'm now an eighteen-soon-to-be-nineteen year old who looks astonishingly like my father. Or so it seems from the pictures Gran shows me constantly.

Neither of them look recognisable any more. Both pale-faced, unfocused eyes and nonexistent expressions, barely able to walk. My father's muscles, once so prominent in photographs are now flabby and useless. My mother's eyes are now a dim blue, there is no longer the spark of intelligence or life in them. Both have their hair cut short so they are unable to pull it out. That is a sight I do not want to see again.

My dad is currently staring at the window, marvelling at the fact that he can't go through it. Something seemingly invisible prevents him from escaping his home. 

Sometimes he screams, as if in pain. But there is no expression on his face, an impassive look in his eyes, as if he doesn't realise what he's doing. That scares me.

The nurses are nice enough. They look after them, place silencing spells on them when they scream too loud, or wail too often. I just wish they wouldn't be so condescending and patronising, as if my parents don't understand. Because they do. They just don't know how to explain.

Right now I want to gag. Once again, the smell of sick has invaded my senses, the putrid smell coming from my mother. She's thrown up all over her bed. Again. The first time I saw this, I almost threw up myself, more out of shock than anything. Now all I feel is pity.

And I hate that.

I shouldn't have to feel pity for my parents, I shouldn't have to feel the need to look after them as if they were children. They were supposed to look after me. I hate feeling pity for people who are not in the state of mind to comprehend it. I hate having that feeling thrust upon me like I'm a small child. I hate Malfoy for announcing to my year in _potions class_ that my parents were insane. I hate Snape for yelling at Malfoy on my behalf, as if I couldn't have killed the bastard on my own. I hate the way he treats me differently. Not better, just differently.

I hate hating my parents, as if it's their fault. Part of me feels as though it is their fault, as though they should have known that they would be half-murdered, as if they should have known not to become Aurors.

My mother has moved from her bed, with sick in her hair. I carefully get my wand out, and perform a cleansing spell. Then I see it. Fear.

She is staring fixatedly at my wand, anxiety etched upon her features. Despite myself, I marvel at the expression. It is one of the few I have ever seen on her face. After my reaction, I hastily put my wand away, feeling disgusted with myself that I even posses the desire to see my mother cower with fear, just to verify the fact that she is human.

"Sorry mum" I whisper, close to tears.

My mother, however, seems to have forgotten the incident, and moved on to the time consuming 'staring into space' that now occupies her life.

I once again feel the need to hug her and dad, but I don't, knowing full well that the shock could kill them. The nurse explained when I was little, that to my parents, we just seem to be blurs, as if two time periods are crossing over. They cannot focus on us properly, and so do not try to.

Fleetingly, I wonder for what must be the thousandth time, if not more, why it had to be me. Why it had to be _my_ family that was ruined. Perhaps if they had died, I could have moved on. But they lived. They _exist_ anyway. Then I feel guilty for wishing they were dead. Not for their sakes. Mine.

I think about Harry, and I feel sorry for him, for not knowing his parents. Then I realise that I don't. These are not my parents lying in a comatose state, they are echoes of them, residue of 'two heroic people who sacrificed themselves for the good of the many', as Gran has drilled into my head since I was old enough to talk.

Why does Harry get all the praise, all the glory, all the sympathy? I feel jealous of him. I am jealous of a guy who has nothing except unwanted praise for something which cost him his family. I have sunk to a new low.

At the same time, I am grateful to Harry. I know that he knew about my...situation... before the others. But he never told anyone. Even though Ron _was_ rather tactless in our fifth year in St Mungos, my second home, he was as silent as Hermione and Harry.

I feel a tap on my shoulder. Gran. She looks at me sadly, a faint well-practised smile upon her lips, as if this no longer effects her. But I've seen the fire-whiskey bottles.

I nod silently, and turn to walk away. Then I hear it. "Nev-" I spin around. My dad. He said something. I walk slowly towards him. He pats my shoulder, looks vacantly through me "Never mind." he says. He's talking nonsense again.

All I want is recognition. So close.


End file.
